Relics
by Maya
Summary: *Complete.* Crossover with Relic Hunter. Adam Pierson is drawn into a dangerous quest to help Sydney Fox retrieve a priceless Bronze Age cache - treasure that Methos does not want found.
1. Prologue

RELICS

Disclaimer: The usual suspects from Highlander/ Relic Hunter are not mine. They belong to Panzer-Davis, Gaumont, and other corporations. No money is made from this, no harm, no foul. 

Actual historical events, locations, and people are used and (mis)interpreted to suit my convenience. However, any resemblance to any real, live people you think you know is purely coincidental. Really.

Genre: Crossover - Highlander/Relic Hunter

Rating: PG-13 for violence and mild profanity. 

Author's Note: Who says Joe can't have flashbacks too? If you're confused about the spellings, most characters speak British English, except for the American characters, and I've tried to keep the spelling consistent. All except for Methos, who refuses to be consistent or predictable. This story was written in 2000, and the only changes made are format and spelling corrections.

Continuity: This story is set a few months after the end of Highlander - The Series, and begins a little while after my last story, Unforgiven.

Summary: Adam Pierson is drawn into Sydney Fox's attempt to retrieve a priceless Bronze Age cache - artefacts that Methos does not want found. The trouble is, there are entirely too many people chasing this treasure, including an Immortal collector who will stop at nothing to get his hands on it first. And the Watchers have caught up with Methos again. In other words, an average sort of week for the world's Oldest Living Immortal.  

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_"Facilis descensus Averno:_

_Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis_

_Sed revocare gravum superasque evadere ad auras,_

_Hoc opus, hic labor est." ::_

_"Easy is the way down to the Underworld:_

_By night and day Hades' dark door stands open;_

_But to retrace one's steps and regain the upper air,_

_That's work, there is the labour."_

_ -- Virgil, The Aenid_

Prologue 

_A dense fog rolled around him, obscuring everything. Far away, voices were screaming. He had no attention to spare for them, for something was coming for him, drawing nearer with every breath. Heart pounding, he pivoted warily, sword drawn. His mouth was dry, icy drops of sweat filming his chilled skin. _

_Footsteps sounded, slow and deliberate, stalking him through the mists, circling just out of sight. It was a game to prolong the painful anticipation of the prey, played by a silent and deadly hunter, the source of his deepest, darkest fears, the one who was coming closer and closer with every step._

_So very close now. His muscles were cramping with panic, his bone-deep dread setting every nerve afire. He knew the one who pursued him. It was his ancient nemesis, the source of an overmastering terror he had spent years locking down; burying it deep, plastering it over with layer upon layer of reason and logic. _

_But the restraints he had so carefully built up were falling away as his persecutor loomed through the mists. The veil parted, confronting him with the face of his  worst nightmare, and a primaeval scream tore from his throat..._

Methos sat bolt upright in bed, coming awake abruptly, body still rigid with horror.

Would the dreams never leave him? Sometimes, he was free of them for years, decades even, but they always returned to plague him, relentless as the Furies of legend, and as fierce. 

His sheets were soaked through with perspiration, and he flung them aside in disgust. He got up, walked to the kitchen and made himself coffee. Three cups of the strong, bitter brew served to clear his head enough to notice the first pale pink signs of daylight dawning through the tall window. 

Instead of going back to bed, he sat down in front of the slim notebook computer that was open on his desk. There were several messages waiting, one from Joe Dawson: 'Where the hell are you, Adam?' That one he opened right away.

Methos grinned. 

"Joe, how did you get yourself mixed up in Amanda's business again? You just can't stay away from Immortal trouble." He spoke aloud, a habit he had acquired through long periods of solitude. The grin grew wider.

"Maybe I should call Le Blues Bar today, after all, just to say hello. On the other hand, not having a Watcher on my tail is quite nice. Amy Zoll's probably having a fit."

A soft beep signalled incoming mail. 

"I thought Sandro was on a dig in Greece somewhere?" he wondered idly, opening the message. 

_'Well Adam, _

_I think I may have stumbled upon the find of my career. Remember those arguments we used to have about the political geography of the Mediterranean world between 1100 and 1000 B.C? You may have won that bet, after all. So be it: I'm in a generous mood, because this will probably revolutionise our views of life in Late Bronze Age Greece completely! Heinrich Schliemann, watch my dust! But I'm getting ahead of myself._

_A month or so ago, surveyors for the new six-lane Athens-Thessaloniki national highway accidentally uncovered some ancient settlement sites near Aerino. That's a small town about 12 miles south of Volos. Anyway, among other things, they came across a cave on a hillside that had some interesting remains, of pottery and household utensils. _

_So I took a small team to investigate the findings. At the Aerino site itself, we found stone foundations of buildings that date back to the Early Bronze age, 3000-2800 B.C, we estimate, as well as newer layers above that. But that wasn't the most exciting thing. While poking around in the cave I mentioned earlier, I accidentally uncovered a hidden underground chamber! Adam, you'll never believe what I found in there -'_

Methos stood up abruptly, not bothering to finish reading the message. He picked up the phone and dialled. 

"Hello, Olympic Airways? I'd like to book a ticket on the first available flight to Athens, please."

Grim and tight-lipped, he glanced back at the words filling the computer screen. Some nightmares would not remain confined to the sphere of sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_*24 May 1999, Greece*_

The drive from Volos was dry and dusty, and it was late in the evening by the time Methos reached Aerino. There wasn't much traffic on the pot-hole ridden road.

"Some things don't change," he said to himself, smiling wrily and  comparing it to the dirt track he had ridden down, many centuries earlier. 

The archaeologist's camp was easy enough to find, and buzzing with activity as Methos arrived. He walked into an unexpected uproar. There were several people clustered around in a knot, waving, gesturing, and yelling imprecations at each other. All of the participants were covered in dust, evidence that they were either excavators or field archaeologists. There was no telling which was which, and the volume of the dispute indicated that they were all extremely upset about something. 

"Some things really don't change. Very Greek," Methos remarked, to no one in particular. 

He picked out a bedraggled Sandro in the group, and hurried forward, losing any trace of amusement abruptly when he noticed the blood-stained bandage around his friend's head. 

"Adam!" the archaeologist exclaimed, when he saw him. Switching to accented, but fluent English, he hurried forward to wring his friend's hand. "I've been robbed! Somebody hit me over the head while I was cataloguing our finds - and when I woke up, the cache was gone!"

'Adam Pierson' made soothing and sympathetic noises, while his mind raced ahead to other things. His thoughts were not pleasant.

"Are you sure it's all gone? What about the site itself?" he asked, trying to calm the sputtering archaelogist down.

Ten minutes later, he was peering down into the underground chamber, to verify that it was indeed, completely empty. He swore savagely, startling his voluble companion into silence. 

"Treasure hunters, I suspect", Adam said, more temperately. A brief examination of the area around Sandro's tent led him to vehicle tracks leading back to Volos. "Call the police," he advised, getting into the car he had hired. 

"Where are you going, Adam?" his puzzled friend enquired. 

"I'm going to find out what I can about these looters of yours," was the reply, as Methos drove away.


	2. Chapter 1

_"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth." _

_-- The Bible, St John 3:8_

Chapter 1 

_*25 May 1999. Paris, Le Blues Bar*_

"Where the hell are you, Methos?" Joe asked aloud, picking out a random tune on his guitar. The bar had closed for the night, and everyone had gone home. Amy had just left, giving him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and an admonishment about not staying up too late. Joe smiled:   his recently acknowledged fatherhood was a pleasant experience on the whole, but it was a bit disconcerting to have an adult daughter bullying him. 

He missed his friends, though. Mac had been gone for six months now, and there was still no word from him. As for Methos - well, the last time he had seen Methos had been...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_*March 1999. Le Blues Bar*_

The obnoxious businessman and his female companion had arrived only ten minutes earlier, and already Joe was annoyed with the man. He was American, obviously wealthy, from the looks of the Armani suit, and very condescending to his attractive blond companion. Girlfriend? Wife? Subordinate? Joe wondered, as she was also in a business suit. Her only contribution to the conversation consisted of an occasional 'yes, Brad, you're right', or a nod of the head to punctuate the non-stop verbiage from her companion.

'Brad' was declaiming at length and at top volume about how the 'deal of a lifetime' had been clinched, entirely due to his unpapralleled intelligence and negotiation skills, while *she* of course, had not the first idea about 'how things are done here in Paris'. His litany was drowning out the band, and several other patrons had shifted away from the bar with deeply annoyed expressions.

The man was obviously drunk, and getting worse, though so far, he had yet to do anything that would justify bouncing him. Joe contemplated calling Mike over to do it anyway. He smiled sympathetically at the pretty blond woman, which she seemed to appreciate. 

"Why do the nice women end up with jerks?" Joe asked Irene, sotto voce, one of his waitresses, when she came to collect an order. 

"Beats me, Joe," she replied, stealing a surreptitious look at the couple, before returning to serve a customer at the tables.

The jerk under discussion was perched on a stool right next to Methos, who was apparently absorbed in his beer. Joe wondered if the Immortal was really as oblivious as he appeared. He had been unusually quiet all evening, and the incessant flow of customers had kept Joe too busy to try and find out what was bothering his friend.

Brad's female companion excused herself to visit the ladies room, which brought a merciful lull in the monologue. Displeased with the loss of his captive audience, the American turned to look for alternative sources of amusement, leering suggestively at Irene, who was passing by. When she ignored him, he turned to Methos and said, "Nice piece of ass, huh?" 

The lanky Immortal's only response was a indeterminate "Mphf."

Not to be discouraged, Brad persisted. "I'm Brad Davies. CEO of Davies Electronics? Maybe you've heard of me?"

Joe watched, fascinated, as Methos looked up, for it was as if someone had flipped a switch inside the man. He was all boyish charm as he responded with a friendly handshake, "The name seems familiar. Weren't you on the cover of Red Herring recently? I'm Adam Pierson."

"Yeah, my company went IPO last month, so there was quite a lot of publicity. You know how these press guys are, they never let you alone." He was preening quite obviously.

"Must be hard, dealing with the fame and fortune," Adam commented.

"Yeah, what can I say? You want success, you gotta take the pain that goes with it," Brad said, laughing at his own humour. "So, what do you do, Adam?"

"Oh, I'm an illusionist."

Joe's ears pricked up. Something interesting was in the wind.

"Really? Like on stage, and everything? The hand is quicker than the eye?"

"Something like that," Adam agreed. "I make things disappear, and so on."

"No kidding. Much money in that?" He looked over the thin man's baggy sweater and worn jeans with a barely concealed sneer.

"Not very much," Adam admitted. "We can't all be David Copperfield, I suppose."

"Guess not. So, what kind of tricks do you do?"

"Let me show you." He looked around, then grabbed a napkin off an adjoining table. "May I borrow your watch?"

Brad obligingly took off the expensive gold Rolex he was wearing and handed it to Adam, who whistled in appreciation.

"Very nice." He wrapped the watch carefully in the napkin, and placed it on the bar. "I'm going to need a hammer -- Joe, do you have a hammer?"

The fascinated Watcher produced one from under the bar; Methos knew very well it was there, since he had used it the previous day helping Joe hang up a picture.  

"Thank you. Now then-- you do trust me, don't you, Brad?"

"Sure I trust ya," was the semi-drunk endorsement. Brad grinned around, inviting the growing audience to join in the fun. The band was taking a break, and many of the curious patrons were watching the little side show. Joe grinned back at Brad, for entirely different reasons.

Adam made a couple of dramatic passes over the folded napkin, and then brought the hammer down hard, resulting in a very audible bang-smash-tinkle sound. He raised the cloth with a flourish to reveal what looked like the remains of a very expensive watch. 

Brad stared at this unexpected sight, and looked up, growing red with anger. "You broke it!"

"Did I? Then what's that on your wrist?"

Everyone quickly looked, to find that the Rolex was back on his wrist, intact. That was a round of oohs, laughter, and a scattering of applause. Adam smiled and took a brief bow.

"That was great! How did you do that?"

Yeah, how _did_ he do that, Joe wondered.

"Just a trick," Adam disclaimed, with a shrug. The band resumed playing, and the people standing around dispersed back to their tables.

The blonde woman returned, and Brad turned to her, still grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, Alice, you just missed this neat trick." He turned back to the 'illusionist'.

"Can you show me how to do that?" 

"Certainly." Passing Davies the napkin, Adam proceeded to reel off instructions. "Yes, you fold it under like that, and place it on the bar. Now you wave your hands over it -- yes, very good, exactly like that. Now you take the hammer, and…" 

Brad enthusiastically smashed the heavy tool down on the folded bundle.  The smashing sound was identical to the earlier one. The would-be illusionist removed the napkin with a flourish, revealing a  mess of springs, metal parts, and glass. 

"How about that, huh?" he said, sounding very pleased with himself.

Alice looked puzzled. "You broke your watch!"

"That's what you think!" Brad laughed, winking at Joe. "Look," he said, extending his hand. When her expression of puzzlement didn't waver, he looked down himself to see that his wrist was bare. He stared, then looked at back the pile of junk on the bar. Frantically, he pawed through the remnants, and realization dawned. "That wasn't the way it happened last time!"

"How very odd," Adam remarked. "It always seems to work for me." 

Alice burst out laughing, and Joe joined in, unable to help himself, as he watched the disbelief on Davies' face. 

"Hey!" Brad turned to Adam, a very ugly expression growing on his face. "You broke my watch!"

"No, _you_ broke your watch." The baritone voice was cool, even amused.

Then the drunk American made an even worse mistake. He threw a wild punch at the man who had just made a fool of him. Adam ducked, and a quick nudge sent the other man, already off balance from the missed swing, crashing off the stool and on to the ground. He didn't get up. The combination of the drinks and the impact of the hard floor left him unconscious. 

Mike bent down to check and confirmed his status, "Out like a light." He was grinning, and so were Joe, Irene, and a good many of the spectators.

In a few minutes, the matter was efficiently wrapped up, the blissfully unaware Mr.Davies was 'helped' into a cab, and his companion had also left with a broad smile and 'thank you' to Joe.

The Watcher came back to resume his place behind the bar, shaking his head. "You are something else, you know that?" he commented, waving a mock admonitory finger in his friend's face.

Adam smiled impishly at him, putting on what Joe privately thought of as his "choirboy" look.  "Me?" he said, sounding injured. "You've got customers waiting, Joe."

Dawson gave him a 'later for you' glare, and went back to work. Much later in the evening, the last customers had filed out, and the band was packing up, when Joe finally found the time to talk to Methos again. 

"Hey Adam," he called cheerfully. "Got any more tricks up your sleeve? Like, something that would help with these dirty glasses?"

"Sorry Joe, can't help." 

"What, I thought you could make things disappear!" he said derisively.

"Yeah." The impish expression was back. "First, I'm going to make this drink disappear," and he promptly did so, chugging it down in a single toss. "And next," he continued, getting up and putting the empty glass down, "_I_ am going to disappear." He walked to the door. "Now you see me..." he stepped out, and then ducked his head back in briefly through the entrance, "... now you don't." And he was gone.

Like the Cheshire cat, Joe thought whimsically. The grin fades out last.

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On that characteristically abrupt note, Methos had vanished, apparently into thin air. The Watchers had been stunned, having been lulled into a sense of security by Adam Pierson/Methos' apparent acceptance of his permanent tail. He had been in the habit of waving nonchalantly at the Watcher assigned to him, Timothy Wyatt. He had even bought him a drink once, at Le Blues Bar. Or rather, Joe corrected ruefully, he had added Tim's drink to his own already astronomically high unpaid tab.

Why do you keep doing this to me, Methos? It seems that just as I get used to having you around, you up and go AWOL.

The last time this had happened, Joe had been extremely upset. It was  in the aftermath of Richie's death. In those first terrible moments, Methos had held him, let him cry helplessly into a wool-clad shoulder,  as Dawson tried to accept the enormity of what had just happened. MacLeod had walked out, unable to deal with the horrible reality -- Richie dead, by Duncan's own hand. Methos had helped Joe with the funeral arrangements, unnaturally calm in the face of Joe's own nearly uncontrollable grief. And then, he too had left, without a word. Joe had felt completely abandoned and alone. 

The older Immortal had returned, months later, as if nothing were amiss. Joe still recalled his conflicting emotions at the memory of that moment. His first reaction had been relief that Methos was alive, and he was back. The second was anger and a strong sense of irritation, because Methos was apparently back merely to do an illicit search of the Watcher database. 

Later, after harsh words spoken on both sides, Methos had saved Joe's life and rescued his daughter Amy. Proving to Joe yet again that this enigmatic man would go to great lengths to help his friends, belying all his cynical assertions of unleavened self-interest.

And where are you now, Methos? What are you doing, and when are you going to just pop back into my life?


	3. Chapter 2

_"Credite posteri..."_

_"...Atque inter silvas Academi quaerere verum."_

_"Believe me, you who follow after me..."_

_"...And seek for truth in the groves of Academe." -- Horace, Odes, Book 2, and Epistles, Book 2._

Chapter 2 

_*26 May 1999, East Coast, United States* _

The looters had been clever, but not quite clever enough to shake a very determined five thousand year old man on their trail. He had tracked them down to a small  University town on the east coast of the United States, where they had seemingly gone to ground. There was a thriving international black market for stolen or illegally obtained antiquities, and this apparently sedate town had become a very important hub for the smugglers in the last few years.

Methos needed some local help, someone who knew the ins and outs of the local underground trade. Sandro had suggested a contact at one of the leading local Universities. So here he was, waiting in the office of the Professor of History and Ancient Civilizations. The blonde assistant had flirted with him for a while, and then left him to wait. 

"Dr.Pierson, I presume?", a rich female voice asked, interrupting his absent scrutiny of an early second century Ivory from China.

Methos looked up to see a very beautiful dark-haired woman enter the room, followed by a thin young man. He assumed his Adam Pierson persona, blinking owlishly at the entrants.

"Ah, that's correct. You must be Dr.Fox?" he said, extending a diffident hand. 

"Call me Sydney, please. I'm not big on formality. This is Nigel Bailey, my TA."

Adam shook hands with the both of them, assessing them covertly as he did so. Sydney Fox had a formidable reputation, one that he did not entirely approve of. In principle, he disliked relic hunters and tomb raiders, most of whom he regarded as mercenary adventurers with no true regard for history. However, Professor Fox was also a respected academic, and was reputedly more ethical than the vast majority of treasure seekers.

She was tall, athletic, and had an impressive mix of brawn and beauty to match her brains. Quite unusual. Nigel Bailey on the other hand, was a boyish, rather proper, upper middle class Briton -- the epitome of what Adam Pierson pretended to be. Despite the silly ass air, Bailey was no fool, Adam thought -- just a bit inexperienced.

"So, did Sandro mention why I was here?" he asked Sydney, hiding a smile when he realised that he had been at the receiving end of an equally covert appraisal from the Professor and her assistant. In his loose hand knit sweater and tweed jacket, he knew he looked like a harmless academic. 

"Yes, he did," she responded, pointing a thumb at the computer on her desk. "He mentioned the contents of the cache that was stolen: priceless, by the sounds of it."

"Or worth a fortune to a private collector", Nigel put in, stammering slightly. "The coins alone must be worth several million! Not to mention the armour, and the scrolls!"

Adam nodded in agreement, trying not to wince. So Sandro had been able to catalogue most of the items rather thoroughly. 

"What interests me," Sydney said thoughtfully, "are the scrolls. And the armor - apparently, it was a full set from the Late Bronze Age, complete with a skull mask. And the inside of the breast plate was marked in cuneiform script. The scrolls, on the other hand, were apparently written in hieroglyphics."

"Yes, so Sandro said," Adam acknowledged. "He can't read cuneiform, and his knowledge of ancient Egyptian is quite limited. That's why he asked for my help," he explained. 

"I know. You come highly recommended. I'm told you read several forms of cuneiform as easily as I would read English."

"Akkadian, Elamite, Hittite, and old Persian," he assented. "Sandro's been singing my praises, has he?"

"No, actually, Dr.Amy Zoll sent me a reference from Paris. She tells me I couldn't find a more accomplished Bronze Age scholar anywhere in the world." 

Adam couldn't hide his discomfort at that, but he managed to turn it into an expression of embarrassed pleasure. Very bloody funny, Dr.Zoll, he thought. Ha ha.  

"This could be one of the most significant finds of the century," Sydney said enthusiastically. "There could have been a lot more contact between the Late Bronze Age Hittite, Egyptian and major Mediterrannean cultures than we suspected. This could be the proof we're looking for!"

Adam looked suitably enthused, nodding vigorously in agreement. 

"From Sandro's rudimentary scan of the scrolls, he says there is some mention of an ancient pre-Semitic myth in them," Nigel commented. "You know, the one that later popped up in the Book of Revelations? The Four Horsemen?"

Adam raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Myth and superstition. A local fairytale," he said dismissively.

Nigel frowned. "Well, maybe there was some historical basis to that myth," he said defensively. "I mean, Schliemann did find Troy on the strength of a song. One that scholars had been claiming was a _fairytale_ for centuries."

"I hardly think this falls into the same category," Adam retorted, looking down his nose at the shorter man. 

Nigel visibly bristled, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Well, we won't know one way or the other till we find the scrolls," Sydney interrupted, before the two men could start arguing over the matter.

Conceding the point, Adam gave her a brief account of why he believed the treasure cache had ended here. Sydney promised to tap her sources to find out if any of the items from the cache were being put on the market, and also to trace where they might have ended up. Adam agreed to meet them both the next morning at Sydney's office.

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It was a beautiful evening, with just a hint of chill in the air, pale pink-tinged clouds scudding across the sky. Adam strolled down the sidewalk toward a restaurant that he remembered from the last time he had been here. How long had it been? About thirty years, he recalled, though the Ivy League university and its surroundings had changed very little in that time. 

The restaurant he chose was a cheerful open air café that would see most of its action just a little later in the evening. He slipped into place at a quiet table in the corner, and smiled at the waitress who signalled that she would be with him in a moment. The last time he had been to this town, there had been a small restaurant here - great food, but a single cramped and dingy room, and only the owner's surly son to wait on the patrons. Now this was much better. He relaxed and glanced around idly. His gaze was arrested suddenly at the sight of a familiar face.

She was young, of medium height, slim, with short dark hair cut into an elegant cap. Seated a few tables away, she was reading a book, as though her being there were perfectly normal and ordinary. Methos' mouth quirked up as she continued to ignore his presence. On impulse, he got up and sauntered across to stand over her until she glanced up. Yes, the familiar blue gray eyes set in a face that was not exactly pretty, but was certainly attractive. Amy Thomas. 

"Well, well. So that's how Zoll knew where to send that reference," he said. 

"Hello... Adam," the young Watcher acknowledged coolly. 

The pause before she spoke his name was quite marked. 

Methos wasn't surprised. He habitually hacked into the Watcher's databases once or twice a week, and he was aware that Amy was currently assigned to the team headed by Dr.Zoll: the team that was in charge of the Methos Chronicles. He also knew that the team was supervised by his old friend Joe Dawson, Amy's father. When he had first found out about Amy's assignment, he had laughed out loud. Keeping it in the family, eh, Joe?

He didn't wait for an invitation, but folded himself into a chair opposite her, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth up. It seemed that she had deliberately let him spot her, a fact that opened up all sorts of interesting possibilities.

"How did you track me down, anyway?" 

She stared at him for a moment.

"You booked your tickets in the name of Adam Pierson," she pointed out. 

So they had been keeping an eye on the airline databases? Methos gave himself a mental shake. Getting careless, old man. Though he hadn't been trying too hard to hide his tracks, it would teach him not to underestimate the Watchers. He covered up his thoughts with a charming smile. 

"So, how's Joe?" he enquired.

"Joe's fine. About as well as you might expect. He is a little upset that he hasn't heard from Duncan MacLeod or you for a while, and he misses his friends, but he's fine."

"MacLeod? I thought he was off circumnavigating the globe or something," he said carelessly, evading the mention of his own long absence. 

But she wasn't about to let him off that easily. "Yes, and with both of his wandering boys gone, without a word from either of them, Joe has been quite… unsettled."

"What did you expect me to do, send postcards?" he asked, shifting slightly in his chair. 

"It wouldn't have killed you to call once in a while," Amy said, quietly. "He worries."

"It's not really me he worries about, you know," he said. "It's the Highland Boy Scout." 

"That's not true," Amy contradicted him. "He misses MacLeod. He also misses you." She shook her head. "Last week, I caught him looking over that long list of outstandings on your account at Le Blues Bar. I'll swear he was feeling nostalgic about it, though he'd kill me if he heard me say so."

Methos had to smile at the thought of Joe getting sentimental over his bar tab, but he was touched, all the same.

"So that's why you're down here breaking the Watcher-Immortal non-fraternization rule?" he asked, with a sly gleam. 

Amy's eyes danced. "A wise man I know told me that sometimes you have to do more than just watch. Besides, I'm not the one who broke the rule - _you_ are. I was just sitting here, observing and recording." 

Methos laughed again, genuinely amused. She had known that his curiosity would drive him to talk to her, once he had spotted her. Devious, Methos acknowledged. 

"And Zoll sent you out after me?" 

"Right." 

"Listen, do you think you could do me a favor? I need to look something up in the Watcher database," he said, smiling winningly. It was the  smile he'd perfected over the years to charm women into friendly complicity.

From Amy, he got a raised eyebrow and a distinctly ironic grin. "Why on earth would you need me to help you? I know perfectly well that you hack into the Paris server at least twice a week."

It was Methos' turn to raise an eyebrow. So she'd found out about that? It wasn't going to be easy to stay one step ahead of this one. But then, he'd always loved a challenge.

"Buy you dinner?" he offered, with uncharacteristic generosity. 

"Why not?"

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They were walking back toward the University, arguing over the relative merits of Byron and Keats. It was dark now, and the empty tree-lined avenue was silent under the clear, starlit sky. 

A flash of movement ahead of them was all the warning Methos had, but he swept Amy behind him, just before the eerie splat told him that a bullet had cut the air very close to them. Silenced, a medium caliber automatic, he checked off automatically in his mind, shoving Amy toward the relative shelter afforded by the trees on the opposite side of the street. She needed no further prompting, taking off at a dead run.

Methos followed, trying to keep his body between her and the unknown shooter. His keen eyes distinguished one, and then another shape lurking in the shadows, as bullets struck sparks off the road just behind them.

Amy heard Methos stumble and swear fervently, and then they were both leaning against the comforting bulk of a very broad tree. She glanced at him, startled to see tendrils of blue electricity crawling over his shoulder. He had been shot, she realised, oddly perturbed. It was one thing to read about the healing abilities of Immortals, quite another to see it in action.

Methos peeped cautiously around the tree, ducking low, and swore again as he heard the sound of running footsteps. He waited to make sure that it wasn't a trick to draw them into the open, and then stepped out from behind the tree. 

"Gone," he confirmed, after a quick scan. Amy joined him, staring in the direction of their retreating attackers. 

"What was that all about?"

"Damned if I know," the Immortal said, giving her a quick visual once over. She seemed unharmed, and quite composed, under the circumstances. One might almost think being shot at was not an unusual phenomenon for her. Peculiar for a 'desk' Watcher. 

"What now?"

"Now, we head for my place, I think." He forestalled her objection with a raised hand. "We don't know why someone was taking pot shots in our direction, and besides, I really need to get out of this shirt."

Amy looked at the blood stain, and nodded a curt agreement.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The apartment was neat and sparsely furnished. Amy looked around at the few signs of inhabitation, notably the computer that was open on the desk, and the battered hiking boots standing next to the door. The kitchen was well equipped, and she made herself a pot of tea while Methos disappeared into the bedroom.

He emerged a few minutes later, barefoot, dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweat pants. She suppressed a smile at the sight of the T-shirt legend:_ Age and treachery will overcome youth and skill every time._

He joined her at the kitchen table, and poured himself a cup of tea, looking abstracted. Amy found herself thinking that it was oddly domestic to be drinking tea with the Immortal she had been assigned to watch. Tim had told her how Adam Pierson had bought him a drink, and chatted casually about blues music.

Of course, he had then given them all the slip and disappeared, surfacing finally in Athens, of all places. It would never do to let the easy-going demeanour fool her into relaxing her vigilance. He was probably thinking about how he could ditch her at the earliest convenient opportunity.

The phone rang, and he excused himself to go and answer it. She followed him out into the living room, keeping a discreet distance away, but still close enough to hear his side of the conversation.

"Hello."

"Hello, Doctor. It has been a long time, but I believe you're still using that title?"

"Who is this?" Methos asked, voice neutral.

"Just an old friend, Dr.Pierson. A very old friend. How is the shoulder? Not that I need to worry, I suppose."

"No?"

"Of course not. Not even a scratch left by now, I imagine. The pretty lady, on the other hand... Who is she, Doctor? Your girlfriend? She really shouldn't walk around alone at night, you know. After all, she's not quite as, er, durable as we are."

"Does this conversation have a point, or are we just passing the time of day here?" Methos enquired politely.

"Oh it has a point, Pierson. Stay away from Dr.Sydney Fox, and stay away from that little cache her friend found in Aerino. I don't want you helping her track it down. Understood?"

"And if I don't comply with this charming request?"

"Your lady friend may live to regret it. And we wouldn't want you losing your head, eh?" A click signalled that the man on the other end had hung up.

Methos put the phone down slowly, and turned to face Amy. "I don't think it's a very good idea for you to go back to your hotel tonight," he said. 

"Who was that?" Amy asked, alarmed at the look on his face.

"Probably the man who ordered that shooting tonight," he said. "And whoever he is, he's having this place watched as well. What's more, he knows I'm an Immortal."

Amy glanced at the window reflexively, and Methos noted approvingly that she moved quickly to lower the blinds, careful to stay to one side.

"So why the guns? He had to know he couldn't hurt you, not permanently anyway," she asked.

"I think that was by way of a warning. Made pointed comments about how you shouldn't walk alone at night. About as subtle as a sledgehammer, this guy," he added drily.

"Oh." Her mouth tightened. "I don't like being a target - especially a target by proxy." She remembered Morgan Walker all too well.

So did Methos. And while he had believed her abduction in that instance to be her own fault (a sloppy Watcher is a dead Watcher, he'd said to Joe), this time, she wasn't the one who had slipped up. 

"Sorry," Methos said, with a hint of contrition. "If you hadn't been seen with me..."

"Yes, well, that's water under the bridge now, Methos. We'll just have to deal with the situation." She sighed. "For this I requested a re-assignment to the field?"


	4. Chapter 3

_"Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen."_

("Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.") -- Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

Chapter 3 

_*27 May 1999, Dr.Sydney Fox's office* _

"You can't be serious!" Sydney said incredulously. "You came all the way from Athens chasing these guys, and now you're just giving up?"

"Do I look like Indiana Jones to you?" Adam Pierson asked. "Look, I'm just a researcher, and all this cloak and dagger business is not in my line. Besides, I'm sure you'll manage just as well without me."

"But I've found out that the cache is here in town! It's hidden somewhere in the warehouse section near the docks: we just need to find out which warehouse."

"I rest my case. You didn't need me to find that out."

He watched the Sydney's ill-concealed disgust, and her assistant's more restrained reaction with interest. Nigel was looking thoughtful rather than angry. 

Methos stiffened as the buzz hit him. Casually, he manouvered around to face the door, as a tall red-haired man walked into the office.

"Hello Sydney, Nigel. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" the newcomer asked, with a polite smile for each of the room's inhabitants. He was tall, quite handsome, appeared to be in his late thirties, and wore an elegant, if conservative, dark blue suit.

"Hello David," Sydney said, forcing a welcoming smile. "I wasn't expecting you for an hour." Responding to his enquiring look, she introduced Adam.

"Dr.Adam Pierson, meet David Ferrars. David is one of the University's largest patrons. The history department is having a fund-raiser tonight, and David is here to pick up some schedules. Dr.Pierson is an Antiquities expert from the Sorbonne."

Ferrars nodded at the other man, who hitched a lean hip onto the edge of Sydney's desk. "Nice to meet you, Dr.Pierson. What brings you to our fair city?"

"I'd hoped to find some interesting material to study, actually. But I've had a change of plans, and I'm leaving tomorrow." He picked up a pen and started doodling idly on the notepad that lay next to him.

"Oh. That's too bad," Ferrars said, with apparent regret. "I hope this short visit hasn't been a complete waste of time."

"Quite the contrary. But duty calls," Adam rejoined, apparently losing interest in the conversation. 

"Thank you, Sidney," Ferrars said, accepting the sheaf of papers she held out to him. "I look forward to seeing you later this evening. Will you be joining us, Dr.Pierson?"

"I don't think so. Packing, and all that. I have an early flight tomorrow. In fact, I should be going now. Goodbye, Sydney, Nigel. It was nice meeting you, Mr.Ferrars." He strode out of the office.

Ferrars caught up with him outside. "Remember me now, Doctor?"

"I rarely forget a face, but in your case I'd have been glad to make an exception."

"Come now, that's a bit ungracious, isn't it? Don't you want to renew our old acquaintance?"

"Not really, no."

"Wise decision, Dr.Pierson. I was sure you'd see it my way."

"Were you?" the taller man asked, sardonically. "How astute of you."

"It doesn't take a genius to predict your reactions, Doctor. You've never been in the habit of standing and fighting, after all. Especially not over something as paltry as a set of ancient relics. I learned that the last time we met." 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_*1809, Athens Acropolis,at the site of the Parthenon*_

"Ham-handed poltroons!" Byron exclaimed in accents weighted with disgust. "All this sweaty toil in the service of an acquisitive Philistine who vandalises their heritage!"

He was referring to the Greek laborers who were carrying the sections of the famous frieze of the Parthenon away in sections, under the supervision of Lord Elgin. Byron's tall, hawk-faced companion stared impassively at the scene. Both men turned at the sensation of another Immortal approaching. It was Lord Elgin's friend and fellow 'classicist', David Campbell. The elder (adopted) son of a wealthy Viscount, he had already built a reputation as a collector of antiquities. Beside him was his mentor, Lord Elgin himself.

The two men joined Lord Byron and his friend on their stone platform. 

"You don't approve of our efforts here, my Lord," Lord Elgin commented, with a grin at his companion.

"I do not, sir," The poet assented haughtily. "No sensible man could, who witnessed the looting of this last poor plunder from a bleeding land."

"Plunder, my Lord? I seek only to preserve the relics of a glorious past, and have them displayed to suitable advantage in the proper setting."

Byron's tall companion spoke. "Does it not seem to you, my Lord, that the proper setting for such works of art is the very sanctuary where they have stood for over two millenia?"

"The Greece of Pericles is long gone, Doctor, and its glories have no true place here, amidst these degenerate descendants of great men. Look at those illiterate barbarians! Are the splendid works of Ictinus and Phidias to be left to the likes of these?"

He turned to Byron, arguing earnestly. "I tell you, sir, their true home is in London, where they may be appreciated by men of worth and wisdom. Surely, as a good Briton, my Lord, you would agree that Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom, is nowhere more truly valued today than in our own land?"

Byron barked a disdainful laugh. Then shooting a malicious glance at Elgin and Campbell, he declaimed dramatically, turning to face the shrine, and flinging his arms out:

"Daughter of Jove! In Britain's injur'd name,

A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim,

Frown not on England -- England owns him not;

Athena! No -- the plunderer was a Scot." 

Elgin turned red with annoyance at the derogatory reference to his origin. He was not best pleased at this reminder, and nor was his comrade, who went rather pale.

"Barbarians, indeed," the poet continued, his fiery eyes blazing scorn at his targets, "The only barbarians I perceive here come from a land of meanness, sophistry and mist!"

He continued to pour his contempt out in scathing verse:

"But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

To rive what Goth, and Turk and Time hath spared;

Cold as the crags upon his native coast,

His mind as barren and his heart as hard,

Is he conceived, whose hand prepared,

Aught to displace Athena's poor remains;

Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,

Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,

And never knew till then the weight of Despot's chains." 

Campbell was white with rage by this time, and stepped forward to confront the poet. 

"I brook no such insult from any man! You will meet me for that, my Lord, honour demands it!"

"Honour, in a Scot. A pleasant idea," Byron sneered. 

The Doctor stepped in hastily to separate the two snarling men. "Enough, gentlemen, the jest has gone too far, I think." He clamped a warning hand on Byron's arm. "Come George, we have other business that awaits us."

Byron glared at him, but gave in, sullenly following him as he retreated. 

"Your principles, Doctor, are therefore not quite as deep as you led us to believe," Campbell called after them.

"My principle, sir, is that sensible men do not risk their lives over a few pieces of lifeless marble," was the only reply.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"And it seems that your sentiments haven't changed," commented the man who now called himself David Ferrars.

"Neither have yours, Campbell. Once a looter, always a looter, I see. Do you still claim to be preserving history?" 

"You misjudge me, Doctor. My motivation is pure profit. There were nearly a hundred pounds of gold and silver coins in that cache. It's worth a fortune! And I know of many private collectors who would pay many times the value of the coins for the scrolls."

"Ah, good old-fashioned greed. That makes me feel so much better," Adam said.

"Does it really matter, Pierson? I know you agree that it's not worth risking your head over relics of a bygone age, unlike our idealistic Sydney Fox. I have no quarrel with you. As long as you leave town, you have my word that I will leave you and your girlfriend alone."

"What about Professor Fox? She strikes me as a persistent sort of lady."

"True. However, she won't be a problem for much longer. In any case, you would do far better worrying about yourself and your lady friend. Do we understand each other?"

"Oh, I understand, all right. Subtlety is a gift you've not managed to acquire over the years."  He turned and sauntered off, hands in pockets, leaving Ferrars to stare after him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I cannot believe that man!" Sydney said angrily to Nigel. "After all that work, tracing those looters here, he just walks away! What kind of man does that?"

Nigel was looking down at the notepad that Pierson had been scribbling on. "What kind of man doodles in Hittite, Demotic Egyptian, and Sanskrit? Sydney, come and look at this!"

She walked over, her curiosity piqued at the sharp note in her assistant's voice. She frowned at the notepad, exasperation dawning as she deciphered the symbols. Her name, followed by several lines she didn't readily understand. 

"A note. He left us a note. Is your Sanskrit any good?"

"Not very. I'll get a dictionary."

Minutes later, when they had figured out the message, they exchanged grim looks. 

"You know, for a mild-mannered researcher, this guy is a bundle of surprises. How do suppose he found that out?"

Nigel shrugged. "Heaven knows. I'm a bit puzzled about how he managed to trace those smugglers so quickly. It doesn't quite fit. If it weren't for his impeccable references, I'd be tempted to believe he was a relic hunter himself."

"Maybe. But we're not learning anything more about it waiting here. Let's go," Sydney said, hurrying out of her office with a reluctant Nigel trailing after her.

She had just reached the car park, when her cell phone rang. 

"Sydney, this is Adam. I assume you've managed to decipher my note?"

"Yes," she said curtly. "I thought you didn't do the cloak and dagger stuff? And do you have any proof of David Ferrars' involvement in this smuggling business?"

"Just a tip off from a reliable source. I can tell you more when we meet. By the way, I'd recommend extreme caution, because it's entirely possible David Ferrars has an unfortunate accident planned for you."

"Yeah? For instance?"

"For instance, you should probably check your car for tampering. My informant just told me that quite a few of his business associates have had automobile accidents. Car bombs, brake failures, and so on."

The 'informant' was the Watcher database, and the sketchy details contained therein about the dubious business practices of the Immortal known as David Ferrars. From the absence of regular updates, Methos deduced that the Watcher assigned to Ferrars was not particularly conscientious.

Sydney handed the cell phone to Nigel and looked the car over carefully. It didn't seem as though anyone had broken in. Playing a hunch, she went down flat on the ground and peered under the car. Nigel watched, wide-eyed, as she slid partly under the vehicle. Some interesting noises ensued, and then she emerged, holding a bundle of -- something -- Nigel concluded, unable to identify it. There were wires dangling from the package, whatever it was. The young TA noticed that Sidney now had grease smeared across her nose and cheek. He stared, bemused, reminded of war paint, as she grabbed the phone back from him.

"Bingo," Sydney informed the man waiting at the other end of the line. "Someone planted enough plastique under the car to blow me sky high the first time I went over a bump in the road. Thanks Adam, I owe you one."

"You're welcome. Now, if the two of you can manage to meet me at the rendezvous point in two hours, I should have a location for us to start our search."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Methos let out an exasperated breath. "Look Amy, I can just as easily do this myself, you know. Why don't you make my life easier? It will save us some valuable time if you do the checking. All I need to know is if David Ferrars owns any property near the docks."

They were sitting in the hall of an anonymous little house that Amy Thomas had found through her local Watcher contacts.

The young Watcher frowned at him. "You know the rules as well as I do, Methos. I'm not going to call on the Watcher network to help you hunt down another Immortal, let alone some Bronze Age relics you're after."

"_Now_, you don't want to break the rules? Oh, that's convenient. Need I remind you that you're already breaking the rules, and this particular Immortal has threatened you, too?"

"Yes I know, and I know that your normal reaction would be to leave town immediately, with me in tow, if necessary. What's so different this time, Methos? And don't tell me this is about breaking up some illicit smuggling ring."

"Are you always this annoying?" he asked. "Or is it something you reserve just for me?"

She didn't bother to dignify that with a response. He finally threw up his hands and sighed. 

"All right! It's the scrolls. I can't afford to have those scrolls become public knowledge. And neither can the Watchers, not if you want the existence of Immortals kept a secret."

She waited for him to go on. 

"They were a part of my journal. Left them behind with some of my other stuff when I parted company with the Horsemen," he gritted out.

"Well, why didn't you just say so in the first place," she said irritably, after an awkward silence.

A half hour later, she hung up the phone and turned to Methos, who was pacing restlessly around the room.

"I have a confirmation on that address. It belongs to Ferrars, all right, he owns a chemical factory, and that's where he supposedly stores the stuff for shipping. His Watcher says that Ferrars visits the warehouse frequently, usually at night."

"Thank you." He pulled his duster on and turned to leave. 

"Where are you going?" she asked, getting up to follow.

"To meet Sydney Fox and her assistant. May I suggest that you stay out of sight? There's no reason for them to find out about you or the Watchers. And we don't need one of Ferrars' men picking up our trail either."

"Oh, blah, blah, blah. I know how to do my job, Methos."

"Could have fooled me," he muttered under his breath, stalking out of the house.


	5. Chapter 4

_"One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night." -- Kahlil Gibran_

Chapter 4 

It was quiet outside the warehouse by the time Sydney and Adam carefully approached the rear. They had left Nigel parked half a block away, with strict instructions to stay put, and keep an eye out for any surprise visitors. The plan was simple: sneak into the warehouse, take a quick look around for the smuggled items from the Aerino cache, and leave, to alert the police. At least, that was the plan Sydney had come up with. Adam had an agenda of his own.

Sydney realised, with some surprise, that the lean man beside her was very good at moving silently. He was dressed in black, as was she, though she had a professional looking jumpsuit on, compared to his jeans and sweater. 

The window was rigged with an alarm. It took Sydney a couple of minutes to disarm it. She got the window open as quietly as she could, and was through it in a moment. Adam followed her, moving as quickly and quietly as a cat burglar, handing her the bulky knapsack she had brought along. They landed in a darkened room, filled with massive shipping containers. 

Adam tapped her shoulder and motioned at the surveillance camera mounted on a wall. Sydney nodded; it was a temperature sensitive device, a make she was familiar with. Pretty hi-tech for an ordinary warehouse, she reflected, pulling a black box out of the knapsack. She flipped a switch and put it down on the floor. It was a powerful radiator. In moments, the ambient temperature of the room would be several degrees higher than the range of human body heat. Effectively, the device would be rendered blind.

Sydney risked turning on a small flashlight, playing it over their surroundings. Chemicals from Ferrars' factory, she concluded. 

That had been unexpected, discovering that David Ferrars was a part of the Antiquities black market. He had always seemed so respectable, so clean and above board. But his close links to the University, and to the history department had probably helped him keep a foot in both worlds. And the bastard was at the fund raiser right now, playing the generous benefactor.

Time enough for recriminations later, focus on the job at hand, she reminded herself. She cautiously headed into the next room, which was  dimly lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Another black box from her bag of tricks took care of the camera. But the area beyond the door on the far side was brightly illuminated, and from the sound of voices, it was occupied. She sidled up to the door, which was ajar, and peeped around. Three disreputable looking men were sitting around the loading area of the warehouse, talking. One was telling a fishing story, if his gestures were any indication. 

Sydney glanced around for her partner in crime, and realised he wasn't there. She cursed silently, and was about to go looking for him, when he emerged from the first room, looking cautiously around. She beckoned him over, making a shushing motion as she did so. He ended beside her, flat against the wall, and trying to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the door. She explained, in a low voice.  

Further reconnaissance told them that there were several interesting crates lying in the lighted area, one in the back of a pickup truck parked just inside the entrance. The three men, one dressed in denim, and the other two in leather jackets, were easily recognisable as hired muscle. Their presence meant that Sydney and Adam would have to be be very careful, and quiet.

The room they were hiding in also contained similarly marked crates stacked neatly in a corner. Sydney eased the door closed, and turned her attention to the latter. Adam was before her, carefully prying the lid of the nearest one loose. Sydney barely restrained her whoop of triumph. 

It contained a set of armour that matched Sandro's description. She picked up the breast plate and turned it to see what was inscribed inside. The markings were in a cleanly incised cuneiform script: early Akkadian, Sydney recognised. She squinted at the writing in the dim light, struggling to recall her knowledge of the script: _Me-tu-tu_? What did that mean? She laid it aside for the moment, and looked at her companion, who was staring, like a man turned to stone, at something else within the box.

It was a visor, or a face mask, elaborately fashioned to look like a skull. Sydney nudged her companion, bringing him abruptly back to the present. He nodded as she gestured to the other boxes.  They quickly had them all open, discovering an assortment of precious items, though not from the Aerino cache. There was a mix of statuary, ivories, and some old jewelry that resembled the findings at Troy. What a diligent bunch of grave robbers, Sydney thought. Some of this stuff had come from as far afield as China. She was just about to suggest that they get the hell out of there and call the police, when fate took a hand. 

There was a crash in the corner of the room. Startled, both she and Adam turned to look: it was a cat, who had just pushed a small ceramic statue off the top of a crate and on to the floor. Sydney exchanged a horrified glance with her companion. This was sure to bring the men from the front of the warehouse in here to investigate. She noticed that Adam closed his eyes for a long moment, and the oddest expression flitted over his face.

Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'cat burglar'. Did I break some feline taboo somewhere? What is it with cats when I'm trying to break into places? he mused, before turning his mind to the more immediate problem. Those goons would be in here in a minute, and there was no way their intrusion would go undetected, not with the crates lying open in plain sight. He ran through and discarded several options as they occurred to him: it looked like they would have to do this the old fashioned way. 

Sydney signalled to him, silently; you go left, I'll go right, she mouthed. He nodded, and silently glided to the opposite side of the door. The man who walked through the door had just enough time to say, "Hey, umph," since Sydney's kick caught him squarely in the temple and knocked him cold.   

"Joey?" a voice queried seconds later. When there was no response, the two remaining men glanced each other and then rose, drawing their guns. They moved as a well coordinated team, standing on either side of the door, with their backs to the wall. The larger of the two swung rapidly to face the door and kicked it open. The door bounced off the wall on the other side, but brought no further reaction. 

The denim clad goon stepped cautiously into the room, his gun extended in front of him. He turned around cautiously, and screamed as a bundle of hissing, spitting, clawing fur landed on his face. He dropped the gun to fight off this disconcerting menace, and was promptly clubbed senseless by Adam's flashlight wielding hand. 

The other thug charged through the door and had the gun kicked out of his hand by a fierce looking woman. He put his hands up in a defensive position, but to no avail, as she punched him, kicked him in the stomach, and then put a knee in his face as he doubled over in pain.

"Nice kitty," Adam said, kneeling to run a caressing hand over the back of the small tortoiseshell cat who had been the cause of their discovery. She purred and rubbed against his knee, apparently forgiving him for picking her up and throwing her so unceremoniously at the nasty man's face.

"If you're quite finished," Sydney prompted acidly. He raised a hand in surrender, and went to look for something to secure their prisoners with. He came up with a roll of duct tape, which he then used to bind their ankles, wrists, and mouths very tightly indeed.

Sydney returned from the front room to signal that the coast was clear, and they walked out into the loading area. The crate in the pickup truck proved to contain a good portion of the coins from Sandro's find. One of the other crates on the warehouse floor revealed what Sydney was most interested in: a rolled-up set of scrolls, carefully protected from the outside air by a layer of clear plastic film. At least Ferrars was taking every precaution, Sydney thought sourly. 

Fascinated, she failed to notice the cold, fixed expression on Adam's face. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket to talk to Nigel. "We've got it. The stuff's here." She paused to listen. "No, no trouble. We'll be out in a few minutes." 

She saw Adam stiffen, and was about to ask him why when the main loading door rolled open unexpectedly. There were four men on the other side, four large, dangerous looking men with guns tucked conspicuously into belts and shoulder holsters. The two parties froze for an instant, staring at each other. Adam and Sydney moved first, diving in opposite directions for cover.

A hail of gunfire erupted, tapering off to a halt as the one of the men shouted, "Stop! You'll damage the merchandise!" 

Sydney heaved a sigh of relief. Except that this now left the two of them to handle four, hand to hand. And she had no idea how well Adam would do in that sort of confrontation, despite the surprising inventiveness he had shown earlier. Oh well, no use worrying: she had faced worse odds. The reckless joy that she always felt during a fight welled up, and she grinned dangerously. 

"Let's do it!" she said fiercely, and leapt out to meet the first of their opponents. She was quickly engaged in a fast moving fight with two of the men, rolling, kicking, blocking and striking. 

Instead of immediately following her example, Adam remained where he was. Unseen by anyone, his face was for a moment, quite unrecognisable. He drew a small gadget from under the baggy sweater, and pressed a button. There was a tremendous explosion from the back of the warehouse, followed by the roar of a rapidly spreading fire. 

The chemicals in the storage tanks had ignited, and the flames were spreading quickly. Everyone was caught by surprise, and Adam seized the opportunity afforded by the sudden calm to scramble into the driver's seat of the pickup truck. The key was still in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. "Come on!" he yelled at Sydney. 

The sound of sirens approaching had the four men running for the exit after a brief confused hesitation. Sydney looked torn. "We can't leave this stuff!" she cried out. 

"We can't be caught here! The firemen will be here any minute, let's go!"

"At least let me get the scrolls!" she insisted, running for the crates.

"No wait, I'll take care of them. You have to cut those guys in the back room loose! They'll be trapped!" Adam countered. 

Sydney hesitated, then looked at the rapidly gaining fire and ran for the back door. She emerged soon after, urging two of the men forward with the aid of a captured gun. The third man, still unconscious, was  half-carried, half-dragged by his companions. 

Released, the hired guns ran out with great alacrity, taking their insensible comrade with them. By this time, the roof was blazing, and in imminent danger of collapse. "Come on!" Adam yelled again, and Sydney noticed with horror that several of the crates in the front room were on fire. Probably sparks from the ceiling, she realized.  

She threw herself into the passenger seat, and they drove out with a screech of tires. They exited the building just in time, as the roof fell in. 

Adam didn't stop until they were confronted by a frantic-looking Nigel. He had a distinctly manic expression until he saw that both Sydney and Adam had made it safely out of the raging inferno which was all that was left of the warehouse.

"Did you manage to save the scrolls?" Sydney asked urgently. 

"I did manage to get a couple of boxes loaded, but there was no time to check which ones," Adam explained regretfully. "There were pieces of debris dropping from the roof, and a few of the crates were on fire."

Sydney and Nigel scrambled into the back of the pickup to check the contents of the boxes. One contained coins, and there were two more, containing priceless statuary and jewels. But no scrolls.

"Damn it!" Sydney slammed a fist into the side of the truck. "We were so close! And now they're gone forever." 

"I'm sorry," Adam said gently. 

"It wasn't your fault," Sydney admitted grudgingly. "How the hell did that fire get started anyway?"

"Probably an electrical spark or something. Those chemicals were highly flammable," Adam suggested.

"Yeah. First the cat, then the fire; there was a jinx on the whole affair. And here we are, with no scrolls, no armour... Damn!"

"It's not like we're completely empty handed," Nigel reminded her. "The coins and the statues are quite a respectable haul. Should provide material for lots of interesting research."

"It's not the same, and you know it. That suit of Bronze Age armour, for instance. That was a piece of history!"

"Maybe some history is meant to stay buried," Adam said. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Boss, the cops are all over the place now!" the leather-clad leader of men from the warehouse said urgently into the phone.

David Ferrars scowled and turned his back on the sounds of the fund raiser in the ballroom behind him. "Describe the two people you caught at the warehouse before the fire," he demanded.

"It was that Sydney Fox woman from the University. And the other guy was the skinny character you had us take a shot at last night. Funny thing though, his shoulder didn't seem to bother him at all. I know I got him, boss."

"It doesn't matter. Get out of town and lay low for a while. I'll contact you in Chicago."

"What about you, boss?"

"I'll pick up a couple of things from my place, and move on. We may have to relocate operations - time enough for that later. Just get moving quickly."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What happened?" Amy Thomas asked Methos as he climbed into the car she had waiting. 

"There was a fire," he said briefly. 

"Yes, I realize that - the news is all over the emergency channels," she said drily, gesturing at the police band radio in the front of the car. "What about the scrolls?"

"Gone." He was still curt and uncommunicative.

She studied his blank expression for a few silent moments and then started the car. "Did you have to burn them? You could have brought them with you - at least then the knowledge of those missing years wouldn't be lost completely."

"It's not lost. It's still up here," he said coldly, tapping his head. "I'm not sure the rest of the world is ready to hear about it just yet."

"Ferrars drove off from the fund raiser in a big hurry," she said, when he appeared disinclined to say more. "Like a bat out of hell, his Watcher said."

He looked at her, and his face softened. "Thank you," he said softly. "I appreciate your help, Amy."

"It's nothing," she said uncomfortably. "What now?"

"Now, I go and keep an overdue appointment with my relic smuggling friend," he told her. "This is where I get off, I think."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd just have to drive behind you all the way. Besides, your coat's still in the back of this car."

He stared at her for a long moment, amusement growing, till she turned to snap at him, "What?!"

"Just thinking: like father, like daughter. Do you know your eyes look just like Joe's when you're angry?"

"Oh, shut up!" she snarled, resolutely keeping her eyes on the road.

"You even sound like him," he said, chuckling irrepressibly.

They drove silently the rest of the way to David Ferrar's luxurious estate. He lived alone, except for a housekeeper who came in first thing in the morning. His Watcher noted that he preferred a secluded lifestyle, with even the help leaving in the evenings. Convenient, for an Immortal who engaged in illegal activities outside the scope of his day job.

Amy parked the car just outside the open wrought iron gate. They both got out, looking at the empty path that led to the colonial style mansion. The grounds were brilliantly flood lit, but the house itself was in darkness. Methos drew his Ivanhoe and moved forward, his movements assuming a spare, deadly grace.

"Where's his Watcher?"

"Around somewhere, I suppose. She did say he had left the party, but  they may not be here yet. We were driving pretty fast."

Methos smiled grimly. "He's here, all right."

Oh. Of course, he would know, Amy realized. She followed him across the ornamental lawn toward the front door. It was standing open, though all the lights were out. All was still and quiet, unnaturally so.  Methos approached the door with that odd, relaxed readiness that somehow suggested danger. She had seen him this way once before, when he had confronted Morgan Walker.

"Aren't you supposed to announce yourself or something?" she blurted nervously.

"You've been listening to Joe talk about the Highlander," Methos said, smiling crookedly. "He's the one who goes around shouting, 'I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.' Somehow, I don't think that 'Adam Pierson of nowhere in particular' has quite the same ring, do you?"

Amy had to smile at that. "Be careful," she said as he inched past her.

"Always," he said softly, his eyes focussed ahead. "Stay back here," he told her, before vanishing into the stygian blackness on silent feet.

She rolled her eyes. Oh yes, as though I would go scurrying around behind him in the dark. She settled down to wait. 

Methos walked, poised for trouble, into the narrow hallway of the mansion, feeling Ferrars' presence nearby. He emerged into what seemed to be a large open room, and heard the door slide closed behind him. Remote controlled, he surmised. There was not a glimmer of light anywhere. 

Coming in from the dazzling brightness of the grounds, his eyes would take some time to accustom themselves to the gloom. So, the man wanted to play games in the dark, did he? Well, Methos knew all the games, had invented many of them, and to tell the truth, loved to play. As long as he made the rules.

Catching a whisper of sound, he sensed Campbell -- no, it was Ferrars now, wasn't it -- glide down the room to his right. No doubt the younger Immortal thought he was completely undetected. But the ancient man he was trying to stalk had been night-fighting for nearly as long as his eidetic mind could recall. 

Ferrars had used this trick before. He had just been about to leave when he felt the other man arrive. Drawing his weapon, he had waited in the dark, knowing that it would take a few critical minutes before the other man's eyes adapted to see in the utter blackness that surrounded them. Moreover, this was Ferrars' own territory: he knew every inch of  the space around him, giving him all the advantage over his blind adversary.

But there were other senses than just sight at Methos' disposal. There was hearing. A dozen little scrapings and rustlings, almost indistinguishable from the faint sounds that houses always made: a board creaking and settling, warped by age, the stir of a curtain in the breeze, the subdued gurgling of water in the pipes that ran through the walls. 

Then there was smell; the traces of expensive after-shave still lingering around Ferrars. The distinctive prickle of fine brandy: probably Armagnac, Methos identified absently, every nerve preternaturally alive and turned to the task of sensing his opponent. The odor of perspiration mixed with the unmistakable scent of excitement and fear. Methos almost grinned in anticipation. Fear was an old friend.

And last but not least, there was feel. There were a million stories to learn if a man were paying attention. The slight displacement of air against Methos' bare forearms, that meant his opponent was moving. The minute shift in the direction from which the telltale buzz emanated. The tiny vibration in the floor when the other man walked. 

When Ferrars swung at his target's neck, the blow was perfectly parried. And returned with frightening accuracy. Suddenly, the aggressor found that he was being pursued and forced to retreat from a series of perfectly controlled, relentless strokes that were aimed with uncanny skill. 

The man must have eyes like a cat! Ferrars thought, and hastily decided to change tactics. He turned and ran for the wall and flipped the hidden switch that waited there. 

"Fiat lux," Methos commented sardonically, as the enormous room was suddenly awash with the brilliance of half a dozen chandeliers. He hesitated not a whit, chasing the other man down, crowding him against the barrier of the walls, till Ferrars made a desperate rush for the ornate staircase that wound its stately way down the middle of the hall. 

The younger man was panting slightly, not so much from the exertion as from the force of his shock. He was struggling now to parry his whipcord thin opponent, who had never given him any indication of this level of skill before. His reluctance to fight had made Ferrars discount him as a threat. 

The tactics with the dark room were merely an attempt to put his opponent off balance; for David Ferrars was a careful man. He had learned early to gain every advantage he could, and saw no reason to waver from his usual pattern. His combination of caution and cunning had always brought him success before. And yet, this lean, impudent _Doctor_, apparently more scholar than knave, had brushed his preparations aside like so much chaff. 

Now the red-haired Immortal was fighting for his life, backing slowly up the stairs as the pale, dark-haired man he faced pressed home his advantage, wielding his 40-inch broadsword like an extension of his arm. To Ferrars's eyes, the end seemed to come in slow motion. He watched, unable to bring his sword up in time as the smooth reverse strike caught him across the ribs, hard enough to shatter bone. When he stumbled forward, he knew the sword would slice into the back of his neck as he fell.

The quickening was relatively short, but sufficiently spectacular, at least to the bedazzled eyes of the Watcher who witnessed its effects from a safe distance outside the mansion. A sudden terrible misgiving shook her, as she wondered which man would emerge from the aftermath of the pyrotechnic display. Until this moment, she had not doubted that Methos would win. Ferrars was not reckoned to be an extraordinary  swordsman, and from everything Joe had said, the mild-mannered 'Adam Pierson' was extremely skilled.

But there was always chance. Wars had been lost on the uncertain whims of fortune, and Amy found that she was holding her breath when a lone figure emerged from the backdrop of the now lighted hallway. She let it out slowly in a sigh, at the sight of the unmistakable silhouette. Contrary to her instincts, it had been a short fight, less than five minutes in duration, she realized, glancing at her watch, even counting the dramatic beginning in utter darkness. The Quickening had lasted for about the same length of time. 

Do all Watchers feel this way? she wondered. Or will time start flowing normally when I grow more accustomed to witnessing Immortal combat?

Methos approached, sword negligently held point up against his shoulder. He cocked a half-friendly, half-mocking grin at her and she found herself returning it.

"I'm glad to see that you do take good advice on occasion," he said, tucking the sword neatly away into his coat with a quick motion. 

"Just going by the book," she retorted. "'Stay a safe distance away from the fight, especially if there is the likelihood of a Quickening inside an enclosed space. Unexpected side effects like electrical fires or exploding windows can injure careless bystanders who get too close.'" 

It was a quote from the Watchers manual, and one of the first lessons drilled into a rookie's head. Of course, it was also frequently ignored by Watchers who could not resist the temptation to witness the excitement of the fight itself.

They walked away from the house, and were well past the gate when a loud explosion rocked the night. The shock of displaced air flung both of them forward onto their knees in the grass. Amy spun around to see the pillars framing the doorway of the mansion collapse. With a dull roar, the entire building seemed to slowly implode, falling inward on itself. Flames licked their way up the walls that still remained standing.

"What was that?" Amy gasped, eyes wide.

"One of those unexpected side effects you were just talking about," Methos explained blandly. 

She glared at him, "Do you like blowing things up and setting places on fire? First the warehouse, and now this. Why on earth would you want to set a bomb here?"

He made a deprecating gesture. "The police will be here any time, you know." He levelled a speaking glance at her. "Did you want them discovering a decapitated corpse? This way, hopefully, it will look like one of his bad business decisions caught up with him. Smuggling antiquities is a dangerous trade."

"Right, and the fact that you couldn't be sure he hadn't kept a scroll or two for himself had nothing to do with it," Amy stated drily.

"Nothing to do with it," he echoed. "All the scrolls were in the crate back at the warehouse. I checked."

The sound of sirens in the distance warned them. "That's our cue," Methos said, pulling the car door open for Amy.


	6. Epilogue

_"An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered." _

_-- G.K.Chesterton_

Epilogue 

_**28 May 1999**_

The unveiling of the new antiquities exhibit by the Department of Ancient History was well attended, and was turning into quite a revel. The excitement following the previous night's fund-raiser had brought the curious flocking in.

Adam Pierson, for once immaculate in a well-cut dark suit, picked up a glass from a passing tray and toasted his companions with a charming smile.

"To relic hunting."

Nigel Bailey returned the gesture hesitantly, while Sydney Fox continued to regard him as she would a vase of dubious provenance. 

"A strange toast from a man who just spent the whole evening arguing against the practice."

"Ah, but without the respectable ones like you, where would the study of Antiquities be? At least your finds end up in a museum," the wiry man pointed out.

"I don't get you, Adam," Sydney said frankly. "You've got to be the most unlikely researcher I've ever seen." A sudden thought occurred to her. "You know, I looked up the inscription from the breast plate we saw. 'Me-tu-tu' is the old Akkadian symbol for 'Death'. What do you think that signifies? Was it a set of burial armor?"

Instead of responding, Adam looked abstracted and manouvered around till he was facing the door. Nigel followed his suddenly intent gaze to see a very beautiful dark haired woman make a grand entrance. She was poured into an elegant black dress, and attracted a good deal of attention when she paced stylishly in. After a cursory look around the room, her eyes lit up, and she made a beeline for Adam. 

Nigel tore his attention away from the vision of pulchritude to throw an envious look at Adam Pierson. He saw the taller man's sharp features settle into what looked like… resignation?

"Why hello, M...Adam, darling! What a delightful surprise," the beautiful newcomer crooned, planting an extravagant kiss on the researcher's lips. 

"Amanda," he acknowledged, with a slight smile. 

"Madam?" Sydney repeated, quizzically. 

"An old joke," Methos explained smoothly. "You know, 'Madam, I'm Adam'?"

"Well, aren't you going to introduce me?" Amanda said brightly.

"Dr.Sydney Fox, Nigel Bailey, meet Amanda..."

"Montrose," Amanda finished smoothly. "I deal in antiquities. Adam and I are old friends, though it has been a long time since we last met."

"Not nearly long enough for me," Nigel heard Pierson mutter into his glass as he drained it.

"Adam has been highly recommended to us as an expert on artefacts of the Bronze Age," Sydney said. 

"Really? I'm quite well acquainted with a five thousand year old relic or two myself," Amanda said with a sly look at 'Adam Pierson', slipping a possessive hand into the crook of his arm. 

Methos carefully and deliberately replaced his empty glass on the tray carried by a passing waiter. Then he smiled sweetly down at Amanda. 

"Lovely to see you again, dear Amanda. We must get together and catch up. Perhaps later tonight?"

"Oh, but Adam, I really do need to speak to you on a matter of the greatest urgency." She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at him, prompting another wave of envy from an admiring Nigel.

"Then why don't we leave, and discuss it in privacy?" he suggested, putting his hand over hers, where it lay on his sleeve. "Will you excuse us, Sydney, Nigel?"

They agreed politely, though Nigel made a stammering attempt get them to stay on for a while.

"Some other time, Nigel. Coming, darling?" Adam asked, his firm grip giving Amanda no choice but to accompany him out of the ballroom. Once out of the building he let her go, and walked straight toward his car, leaving Amanda to chase after his long-legged stride.

"Methos!" she called after his retreating back.

"Whatever it is, I'm not doing it, Amanda."

"Methos, will you just listen to me for a minute?"

"Save your breath. I'm not getting involved in one of your schemes again. How the hell did you know where to find me, anyway?"

"I told her," Amy said, getting up from her comfortable position sitting on the hood of his car.

Methos glared at his Watcher, and then at the raven-haired Immortal thief beside him. Then he flung his head back to look at the sky.

"Dear Heaven, why me? Why is it always _me_?" he asked plaintively, of the unresponsive heavens.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Footnotes:

_Byron's rants are excerpted from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, where he did, indeed, vent his outrage at the transfer of "Lord Elgin's Marbles" to Britain._


End file.
